


finding words for what we already know

by fluorescentadolescent



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 17:09:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3904222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluorescentadolescent/pseuds/fluorescentadolescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We accept," Clarke says as she looks into the eyes of Cheimonas, steel in her voice, back ramrod straight, Bellamy by her side. She will not be intimidated. </p>
<p>Surprise flickers behind the beautiful woman’s green eyes before she can control it, a look of respect soon taking over. "We are glad. Antigone will show you and the rest of your people to your quarters for the night. The ritual will take place tomorrow at sundown," says the Ice Queen, as if she’s not propositioning Clarke for sex, but a huge, great honor instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This world is too good not to indulge in.

“And following its path, we took no care

To rest, but climbed: he first, then I-- so far,

Through a round aperture I saw appear

Some of the beautiful things that Heaven bears,

Where we came forth, and once more saw the stars.” – Dante Alighieri, Inferno

*

Clarke Griffin knew she had a problem. After three years on the ground, half of one in which she spent wandering it, alone, she had grown accustomed to the many things the ground offered… and took away. Her problem, though, wasn’t with the ground’s tumultuous nature. Well, at least not her _main_ problem. It was with her co-leader.

Don’t get her wrong. They got along just fine. More than fine, really. It had more to do with that knowledge, in fact. She just couldn’t understand when her indifference had blossomed into interest. Probably around the same time the ground had quieted down, its mysterious dangers no longer surprising them, their alliances growing, their camp becoming sturdy. It was starting to feel like home. 

Her co-leader - abrasive, impulsive, loyal – was, inopportunely, becoming a distraction, which was saying a lot, really. With this new earth constantly demanding attention from its inhabitants, Clarke was astounded to find out that Bellamy demanded more from her. And it wasn’t intentional, of course not. The man had absolutely no idea that she was beginning to completely depend on him, and only him. Sure, he was aware of their close relationship…. Friendship. Clarke still felt strange referring to what they had as friendship because it always felt like so much more. But, when she got down to the thick of it, she knew, deep down, that was what they had. Friendship… and then some.

The thing was, realizing you were all of a sudden smitten over your best friend shouldn’t have been an issue. A little nerve-wracking, sure. But in another world, nothing would’ve stopped Clarke from going for it. Hell, she was upfront and candid because there was no other alternative given their circumstances. She needed to be in order to get shit done.

But now, staring at Bellamy chop down wood from across camp like a fool on this humid day, sans shirt … well, Clarke Griffin had a fucking problem. 

She had a problem because there was no way, in a million years, she’d be willing to risk their dynamic all in favor of being able to freely nuzzle his tanned neck. She had a problem because she was in embarrassingly deep at this point and she was fairly certain everyone, except the man in question, was aware. She had a problem because this infuriating man would strut around camp solely wearing his stupid cargo pants, and she had a problem because she was so fucking sexually frustrated at this point that she salivated like Pavlov’s dog whenever he would do so.

It was pathetic, really. So she pegged it down to loneliness, or boredom, and the fact that he was easily the number one person on her list whom she trusted wholeheartedly. Which was just another reminder why she could not, under any circumstances, pursue whatever the hell her brain was insinuating she pursue. 

So when Bellamy comes up to her, a little breathless and _very_ sweaty and shiny from his previous exertions, Clarke freezes up for a moment.

“Hello? Earth to Clarke!” he says waving both hands in front of her. 

“Hm?” _Oh, smooth, Griffin. Smooth._

“Are we still on for tonight?” he asks, hands going to rest back on his hips. His very _bare_ hips.

And that almost gives Clarke an aneurism. She knows they have a freaky ESP thing between them, but _really_? “W-what? Tonight?” she manages to get out. 

Bellamy is staring at her like she’s grown a second head, a slight look of concern behind the bewilderment. “To get your ginseng plants…” he drifts off, eyeing her down.

“Oh,” she breathes. “Right, yeah. Yes. Of course we’re still on. Thanks, Bellamy.” If she were alone, she’d kick herself.

“You okay? Have you been getting enough sleep?” he questions with the protective lilt in his voice that makes Clarke’s hands tingle.

“Yes, Bellamy,” she says, slightly exasperated, turning in the direction of her conical tent. _I’m getting more than enough sleep_ , she thinks bitterly. _That’s the problem._

“Easy,” he grumbles, following closely behind her.

“Was there something else?” she asks turning abruptly, lips drawn in a tight line, back tense. Bellamy pauses, looking slightly hurt for a nanosecond before he eyes her up and down, causing her to squirm.

“Just heading to my tent, Princess,” he responds nodding behind her, an amused smirk and slightly confused look gracing his features.

_Right,_ she thinks _. Because his tent is right freaking next to yours, Clarke._   

When she returned to Camp Jaha after spending five months away trying desperately to forget, or accept, all that happened in Mount Weather, Clarke had come home to tipis littering camp, made from sophisticated animal skins. They were cozy and warm, and much better than sleeping in the metal space station that only served to haunt her at night.

The place had been transformed when she returned, a water well and crops sustaining the group comfortably, the beautiful cabin medbay serving as her solace upon returning. Apparently Bellamy had built it for her, but when she had tried thanking him for it he just responded with a shrug and a vague, “We’ve all been working hard here, Clarke.” She didn’t push because she had had no right to. She had been genuinely terrified upon returning that he would hate her. 

After the strained ordeal with Octavia, Clarke thought she’d return and be partner-less. But like with everything else, Bellamy had accepted her, a husky, “I said you’re forgiven,” his only response to the subject. Octavia had, in turn, been more difficult to apologize to. At times, their relationship still had undercurrents of an overwrought quality, but she had told Clarke she understood why she did it, and Clarke accepted the reprieve gratefully.

“See you before sundown,” Bellamy calls behind his shoulder, before entering his tipi, the tanned hue of the animal skins complementary to the skin tone of his back. She had completely zoned out, probably staring at him like a fish out of water, missing what he had said before his sendoff. She didn’t miss the way he had been shaking his head in bewilderment, though. 

*

Her little problem becomes a real fucking issue when they visit Hiems, where the Ice Clan resides.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Raven says loud enough for Lincoln to shoot her a disapproving look. She refused to stay back for their final meeting of the alliance, insisting, “There’s no way in hell I’m missing that party!”

Clarke is frozen in place, staring blankly back at Cheimonas, the Ice Queen, and her second, Echo. 

Bellamy clears his throat beside her. “I’m sorry, come again?”

It looks like Echo is trying not to smile, but it’s hard to tell from where Clarke is standing, while Cheimonas is exhaling slowly through her nose. Her and Bellamy’s expressions must be priceless right now. “This will seal the alliance,” she clips.

“I’m sure it will seal more than just that,” Raven mutters under her breath from behind Clarke. She sees Octavia shoot her an amused look, Lincoln stiffening at the girl’s side, from her peripheral. They are _so_ not helping.

“There must be some other way…” Bellamy trails off, baffled. When Clarke looks up at him, his face is, for once, open, a look of surprise and slight anxiety in his eyes. There is also a faint red hue to his cheeks, but Clarke’s sure she is the colour of a tomato right now, so…

The thing is, they’ve been negotiating peace with the Ice Clan for about a year now, Bellamy going back and forth between the two groups serving as the negotiator, much to Clarke’s annoyance. She sees the way Echo looks at him. She’s not stupid. It has no right to bother her, though. She knew what she was walking away from when she left him at Camp Jaha’s gate. She knew what she was risking… she thinks.

Clarke knows how much they need this after Lexa’s betrayal. They need backup if shit were to hit the fan, and here on the ground that will surely happen. But what they’re asking them to do… well; it’s preposterous, and a little barbaric. 

The ritual would proceed as follows: Clarke would arrive at their Glaciem Templum (which Clarke is pretty sure means Temple of Ice, but, hey, Latin wasn’t really taught on the Ark so she could be wrong.) to witness the fight. The one between Bellamy and any other man of her choice, and they would, well, fight. Over her. Whoever won had the wonderful honor and pleasure of… sealing the alliance.  With her. And lots of food would be given beforehand, apparently. _Absolutely barbaric._

“Look, we understand that this is a part of your culture, and we don’t want to disrespect that, but,” Bellamy pauses, licking his lips nervously, “maybe you guys could make an exception for us?” She knew he had meant for it to come out with more conviction, not posed as a question. 

“This ritual is sacred and obligatory in the instance of an alliance. We will not abandon years of tradition because your culture is uncomfortable with the way we run ours,” Cheimonas says curtly.

He clenches his jaw, and Echo levels him with one of her stares. Clarke grits her teeth. “Well, there is no way in hell we are going to do that,” Bellamy nearly yells. The soldier behind Cheimonas tenses, the latter of the two only raising an eyebrow disapprovingly.

“Bellamy,” Echo speaks up, “think about it, please. Try and see it from our perspective.”

Bellamy is about to respond, probably with something along the lines of, “fat fucking chance” by the look on his face, and Clarke would be offended but she knows he’s just trying to protect her when all's said and done.

She lays a calming hand on his arm, finally finding her voice in all this. “We are not ready to just throw away this alliance,” she says levelly, not meeting Bellamy’s probing gaze, “so may we please have some time to think about it?”

Cheimonas seems to ponder this, clearly displeased with their hesitance, but also seemingly reluctant to turn down an alliance. “You have until sundown to decide,” she says, and then she’s marching off, Echo and her soldier, who is covered in bones and tattoos, by her side.

She finally meets Bellamy’s expectant gaze, trying not to curl into herself. “You can’t be serious,” he says, eyes ablaze. “Clarke, we’re not doing this. No alliance is worth _that…_ ” Now Clarke’s offended, because _seriously?_ It’s just sex, when you get down to it. He clearly has no issue with the deed, if his earlier days on earth are anything to go by. She’s the one who should be worrying, as there’s a slight possibility it won’t be Bellamy. _And why is she speaking about this as if she has already made up her mind?_ She questions herself, frustrated. 

It must show on her face because Bellamy scrubs a hand over his, frustrated.

“Look, I know you both probably don’t give a shit about my input right now, but let’s say Bellamy beat this Ice Clan warrior beast man, and let’s say you two… did the deed,” Bellamy winces, uncomfortable, and Clarke glares at the side of his head,” would it really be so bad? Think about it! You guys are practically partners already an-”

“Enough!” Clarke interrupts Raven’s hypothetical, which is just making her more nauseous.  Clarke looks around at her friends, her _family_ really. Raven is looking slightly sheepish for once in her life, but Clarke does not for one second miss the amusement in her eyes - she’s probably loving this. Octavia looks surprisingly unbothered by the whole concept, but she is smirking at her brother’s frazzled state. Lincoln looks stoic as ever, the ritual clearly something familiar to him and his world. His old world, anyway. She likes to think he's one of them now, even if he never truly settled in, the stark contrast in culture serving as a barrier that only Octavia could bridge.

“You two should probably speak alone about this, huh?” Raven finally relents. When Clarke nods solemnly in response, they scatter. Not before Lincoln shoots Clarke and Bellamy a stern look, though. _What the hell is that supposed to mean?_

“Clarke… what the hell,” Bellamy says, one hand resting on his hip, the other clenched tightly at his side. 

“Don’t give me that accusatory voice crap! What other option do we have, Bellamy?” She demands, taking a step towards him.

He just shakes his head, crossing his arms and looking in the direction of the woods.

“Are you seriously ready to forget this alliance?” Clarke asks, voice wavering slightly. She doesn’t feel as brave as what she’s implying, but when has she ever on the ground?

“Are you seriously ready to have sex with some random Ice Clan fucker?” Bellamy growls, meeting her gaze again, head on.

Clarke glares at him. “Why don’t you let me worry about that,” she sneers. “I was also hoping you wouldn’t lose.”

At that, Bellamy swallows thickly. He looks extremely uncomfortable and, again, Clarke is wondering if she should be offended.

“And if I do lose?” he finally asks her, and it feels like a loaded question – feels like it reaches further than their current situation.

“Then… I don’t know. We’ll figure it out when the time comes,” she says, trying to sound nonchalant, when she’s actually horrified at the prospect of having sex with a stranger. _At least she’ll get to choose that stranger_ , she thinks with a shudder. 

Bellamy stares her down for a full minute, trying to so obviously read her, but she has schooled her features into her ‘this is business’ face. He doesn’t look satisfied, but he nods once, muttering a quiet, “Whatever you want, Clarke.”

_Ha. If only_ , she thinks bitterly, shamefully.

* 

“We accept,” Clarke says as she looks into the eyes of Cheimonas, steel in her voice, back ramrod straight, Bellamy by her side. She will _not_ be intimidated.

Surprise flickers behind the beautiful woman’s green eyes before she can control it, a look of respect soon taking over. “We are glad. Antigone will show you and the rest of your people to your quarters for the night. The ritual will take place tomorrow at sundown,” says the Ice Queen, as if she’s not propositioning Clarke for sex, but a huge, great honor instead. 

Clarke’s stomach plummets, the anxiety beginning to seep in. _Tomorrow?_ Her next response gets caught in her throat. Bellamy lays a firm hand on her lower back.

“Thank you,” he says, taking over, but it sounds more like “fuck you” to Clarke.

He leads her out of the claustrophobic tent, cabin - she doesn’t even know what to call the damn thing. Before they reach the threshold to exit the Queen’s sacred space, Clarke turns to Bellamy, seeing both remorse and concern on his face, and chokes out, “You better fucking win that fight.”


	2. Chapter 2

“But the stars that marked our starting fall away.

We must go deeper into greater pain,

for it is not permitted that we stay.” – Dante Alighieri, Inferno 

*

"Hey, how about we attempt to maintain what's left of my masculinity here?" Bellamy hisses into her ear when she pauses at a particularly scrawny clan member. Jasper could surely take him. 

Clarke tries to suppress her smile, failing if Bellamy's annoyed huff behind her is anything to go by.

She moves on to the next clan member, immediately disregarding him when she sees the size of his arms, two enormous globes, and his nose ring, so long it dangles over his upper lip. She wants Bellamy to win, after all. She's not sure Lincoln could even take him. 

Clarke steps in front of a blonde next, his striking green eyes and freckles instantly standing out. His build is almost identical to Bellamy's, perhaps only slightly smaller. Not too tall, not too broad or chesty.

She decides to compromise. An equal fight for Bellamy, and a pleasing individual to look at in the case that Bellamy does lose.

_He can’t lose_ , she thinks to herself.

"Him," Clarke says, turning to face Echo. The dark-haired vixen simply nods in response and turns with chosen clan member trailing closely behind her.

Clarke is slightly grossed out by the objectivity of it all. 

When she turns to look at Bellamy, he's staring down at his boots, pensive. He looks bare without his gun slung sash-style over his shoulders. 

"Good enough for you, Alpha?" she asks, eyebrow raised.

His head snaps up, an amused twinkle in his eyes, his mouth threatening to take the shape of that smirk. He doesn't respond, though. Instead, he pushes Clarke good-naturedly so she stumbles into the same chesty grounder from before - the one with the nose ring that terrified her.

"Sorry," she squeaks, catching up with Bellamy quickly and not missing the way he's absolutely failing to hide his full blown smile. 

_Bastard_.

* 

"It's one of the most sacred pastimes in the world. What better way to seal a sacred agreement?" Antigone explains. 

_With wine and food, like normal people_ , Clarke thinks.

They’re inside a skin tent, Antigone getting her ready for the pre-ritual dinner. Clarke finds it strange that she’s so comfortable with a member of the Ice Clan, but Antigone’s calm eyes and relaxed demeanor have a way of doing just that. She’s not so cold and stoic like the other women, and Clarke is eternally gratefully that it’s Antigone, and not Echo, dressing her like she’s some doll.

"Why the fight, though?" Clarke asks, fiddling with the fringes of the Elk skin dress she has been squished into. It’s sleeveless and falls mid-thigh, the porcupine quillwork and cut fringes reminding Clarke just how different these people are from her own. She’s pretty sure it’s Elk teeth that are adorning her neck and wrists, too. It is a beautiful dress, its colourful geometric designs painted from what she assumes are earth pigments. She wonders where they found the glass beads, though, and if, after this agreement is complete, they’ll have access to them, too.

_It’s also a good thing it’s not winter yet, or else I’d freeze my ass off._

"Our ancestors were slightly violent people," Antigone states, smiling briefly at Clarke before she continues lacing up her gladiator styled sandals. "Warriors. Warriors who experienced profuse betrayal as a result of other clans not being dedicated enough. The fight embodies dedication and devotion within an ally. It exhibits the characteristics necessary in an ally for an alliance to even work. Previous fighters who have lost, outside of the Ice Clan, have proven to be unreliable and disgraceful. Call it what you will at this point - tradition, superstition..." She trails off. “It just seems to work.”

"The fight is a test?" Clarke asks, astonished.

"Something of the sort," Antigone responds, as if it’s no big deal. She assumes it isn’t to these people.

"So what if Bellamy loses? Will the alliance be impossible?" 

Antigone pauses tying up Clarke's strappy sandals to look up at her, a contemplative expression on her pretty face. Her expressive brown eyes and thick black hair only serve to further heighten her attractiveness. "I don't think anyone doubts Bellamy's winning of that fight. He clearly cares for you." She pauses. "But if he does lose, it would then be Cheimonas’ call," she shrugs.

Clarke shakes her head, not knowing how to respond. Bellamy _needs_ to win _._

Echo pops her head into the tent then. "They are ready for you," she says eyeing Clarke up and down, smiling slightly, and only unnerving her further.

She thinks she'll have a heart attack before she has the chance to go through with this ritual.

Clarke nods in response, though, remembers the first day she saw Echo, the memory coming to her unbidden.

_"Who's that?" Clarke questions Bellamy when he returns to her from outside the gate._

_He only hesitates a moment. "Echo. One of the grounders I helped free in Mount Weather."_

_A weighty silence falls over them. As it always does whenever they speak of Mount Weather._

_She nods brusquely. "Right," Clarke says, dismissive. She's about to delve into another topic, when he speaks._

_"What?" When she just stares at him, he expands. "It just looks like there's something bother-… something you wanna say," he amends._

_She shakes her head, but answers anyway. "She just looks..." Like she wants to devour you on a stick, Clarke thinks bitterly. "Precarious," she settles on, eyeing Echo's retreating form in the distance._

_"Well, it's a good thing I'm well versed in danger and uncertainty then," Bellamy says casually._

_Clarke swallows thickly. "I guess so." She's looking at her scuffed boot, and they haven't said anything for a full minute now and this is awkward and she just knows Bellamy is scrutinizing her face._

_"Clarke, that was a joke..." He trails off a little uncertainly, like he's waiting for her to implode._

She remembers forcing a smile at him, and muttering something that obviously didn't placate him, and then staying in the medbay the rest of the night.

It was horrifying, to say the least. 

“We’re nearly finished,” Antigone tells Echo, bringing Clarke back to the present. 

Yup. That heart attack is real plausible.

*

"Octavia, be serious," Bellamy tells her gruffly, adjusting the surprisingly comfy leather shorts. He ties the string that serves to hold them up on his hips and has a fleeting moment where he imagines Clarke doing the opposite. 

He shakes his head. _One thing at a time, Blake_. 

"Bell, get over yourself. You should be thanking the Ice Clan gods right now, in my opinion. You're acting as if you have to sacrifice Clarke with a machete at the altar," Octavia states bluntly.

Bellamy winces at the mental image, simply grunting in response. Because he’s not going to think about Clarke. Or what they will be doing. Possibly. Or what they won’t be doing. Possibly. No. _Nope._

“Hey, Casanova,” Raven mumbles through a mouthful of bread, ducking into the tent he was assigned. “You ready yet? Those fuckers are getting restless.”

Bellamy’s glare follows her as she plops down onto the reindeer skin cot in the corner of the room. “Cute.” He glowers at her until her gaze meets his own. “Casanova? Really?”

“Casanova, Don Juan, Romeo,” she says dismissively, waving her bread in the air. “Same shit.”

“And how, exactly, am I either of those idiots?”

Raven just stares at him like he’s a complete and utter fool which, _fine,_ _maybe he’s being obtuse on purpose here. Sue him. He’s nervous._  

“I think Bell’s more of a Lancelot type, no?” Octavia chimes in.

“So, is Clarke Guinevere, then?” Raven asks. 

Bellamy groans at the two of them because they’re insufferable, really.

*

Bellamy finishes chewing his piece of bread, lifting his eyes to scan what is probably the entirety of the Ice Clan, decked out in grey furs and watching him closely in between bites of food. He turns to Clarke, who is sitting next to him and glaring right back at the party in front of her. “Hey, you feel like a piece of meat yet, or is it just me?”

She scoffs, the glare falling off her face. She turns to him then, a small smile threatening to take over her face. And yeah, he knew turning this whole bizarre situation into a humorous one would make her feel a little better.

“Frankly, I’m surprised they won’t be witnessing the main event,” she says, a teasing lilt to her soft voice. 

“Hmm. I suppose even the Ice Clan draws the line at public sex.”

And if Clarke blushes at his comment, he pretends not to notice, simply turning away with a smirk on his lips.

He _needs_ to win this fight.

*

“Go slowly. Your anger will give you enough speed,” the man dressed in heavy grey furs, Atohl, tells Bellamy. He nods in response, not quite certain why this Ice Clan member is giving him advice, but grateful nonetheless. “Aequo pugna.”

“What’s it mean?” Bellamy asks, curious.

“Fair fight,” Atohl rasps lowly before moving off to the side so Bellamy can walk through the crowd that has progressively gathered.

They’ve formed a circle around the dirt-covered floor - the same one where the fight will take place. When he finally makes it through the crowd, into the pit, he feels the heat from the bonfire before he sees it, strategically placed in the middle, its flames far-reaching. 

_Great,_ he thinks, sardonically. _Not only will I be dodging fists, but a fire, too._

The temple, though it looks nothing like one, isn’t made of ice, of course. Bellamy’s not sure what he expected, but a marble pergola surrounding the pit wasn’t it. The high columns are beautiful, resembling ice he supposes, and it reminds him of the ancient pergola’s the Egyptians used to grow grapes. _Where_ the Ice Clan managed to find this much marble is beyond him.

The member he’s fighting is already there, patiently awaiting instructions from his queen.

Behind the fire, in alignment with the circle of people, sits Cheimonas in her marble throne, the wooden spears sticking out behind it telling of her rank. She’s a tall woman, but she still looks tiny in comparison to her seat. Beside her, Clarke is perched on another marble throne, not nearly as large. Poised in her seat, Bellamy can see just how skimpy her dress is, the tight bodice and low-cut neckline only serving to further accentuate her figure. She looks strong, breathtaking and nervous all at once, chewing on her lip while gripping the arms of her chair.

They lock eyes soon after he makes his way through the crowd towards the fire to stand next to his opponent. He notices her gaze dip to his bare chest briefly before returning to his face, and he has to try really hard not to raise an eyebrow at her in question.

Cheimonas stands up when the crowd finally quiets down in response to his arrival. “We citizens of the Ice Nation welcome you, Skaikru,” she calls out in a clear, commanding voice. “Akoni and Bellamy,” now she greets them both specifically. “This is a fist fight. There will be no weapons of any sort. If we find one on either of you, you will be killed for your crime and disrespect. You will both fight until one of you cannot any longer, or if one of you wishes to quit. You will not fight to the death and you will both remain reverent. Once Echo brands you both, you may begin. Aequo pugna.”

_We’re getting branded? What the fuck?_

Bellamy knows this is probably some prodigious custom, and he should be grateful, really, that these people feel him trustworthy enough to brand him with their sacred symbol or whatever the fuck, but he cant help feeling like this is taking things a bit too far.

“This way,” Echo tells them.

Akoni gets branded first, and doesn’t so much as flinch at the contact of the heated metal to his skin. Bellamy concludes it’s not his first time.

“Bellamy kom Skaikru, you are next.” Echo waves him over.

He gets branded on the inside of his wrist with some semblance of a sigil, a razor sharp spiral that folds in on itself, all in the same direction, representing who knows what. It’s small, but it hurts like a bitch, and he feels like this is unfair in so many ways, _he doesn’t want to be branded_ , but he sucks it up and hopes the mark will fade with time.

*

Clarke is having a really difficult time staying seated while Bellamy fights... for her. For this alliance. 

She shakes her head, focuses on Bellamy’s agile moves a few feet in front of her. He’s pacing around Akoni, his eyes dark with focus. He resembles a beautiful creature hunting his prey. Akoni looks deep in thought, his eyes trained on Bellamy, trying to anticipate his next move. 

Bellamy had nearly tripped into the fire a few moves prior, after Akoni had pushed him, and her heart almost tumbled out of her mouth in fear. She had screamed his name, urging him to stop his fall somehow, some way, and he had. He’d glanced at her fleetingly before fixing his stance again and getting a few good punches in on Akoni.

They’re breathing hard, dancing around each other, and each getting in an equal amount of damage. Neither has fallen to the ground yet.

She’s perched on the edge of her wooden seat, digging half-moons in her palms with her nails. She knows Bellamy is just waiting for the perfect moment to strike, as he always does. He’s trying to wear Akoni out – get him tired. Clarke’s just afraid Akoni may be doing the same.

Octavia is standing beside Lincoln at the edge of the crowd front row and center remaining, surprisingly, quiet. Clarke had assumed she’d be yelling directions at her brother, urging him on, but she’s merely standing there, her face a mask of concentration, watching Bellamy’s every move. Lincoln seems to be paying Akoni more attention, as if he’s waiting for the man to pull a knife out of nowhere.

Raven, a few heads behind the pair, is peering over a bulky man’s shoulder. Her eyebrows are drawn in concern and she keeps glancing Clarke’s way, as if to make sure _she’s_ okay - to make sure she’s still there, in her seat, and not in the middle of the pit.

Clarke’s eyes snap back to Bellamy when she hears a horrific sound, like bone crunching underneath a fist. Her heart begins beating in overtime when she sees that Bellamy is hurt, blood spewing from his nose.

*

Bellamy grits his teeth from the pain of the blow. He had been distracted, the wild nature of the growing fire sidetracking him long enough for Akoni to punch him straight in the nose.

Bellamy lunges forward with a grunt, getting in a few more punches before he manages to push Akoni to the ground. He’s straddling the guy now, throwing punches precisely, relentlessly, and Akoni is holding his own face, trying to keep all his blood from spilling out the orifices of his face.

He can’t feel his fists anymore – can’t feel anything anymore, only the anger that’s driving him. The anger telling him to keep punching unless he wants to lose to this bastard… wants to lose _Clarke_ to this bastard.

_Look at the thanks he got,_ Octavia’s voice tells him in his head.

_How’d you know?_ Punch to the nose. _He’d do anything for her… to protect her. Just made sense._ Hit to the jaw. _Look at the thanks he got._ Jab to the temple. 

Akoni manages to get in a right hook, throwing Bellamy off balance. He grabs a hold of one of Bellamy’s wrists then, flipping them both over so Bellamy is wedged between him and the dirt floor.

_What am I even fighting for anymore?_

And then he’s the one blocking his face, Akoni holding Bellamy’s neck down to the ground with one hand, nearly choking him, the man’s fist flying ruthlessly in the air only to connect back with his face. 

_She left. She left and she could leave again._  

Bellamy tries to wriggle beneath him, to gain some sort of advantage or control and flip them over so he can finally be done with this fucker, but the little bit of air he is managing to breath in isn’t enough.

_I thought Ice Queen said no fighting ‘til the death,_ Bellamy thinks dazedly.

“Bellamy!”

He comes back slightly when he hears her strangled voice.

Clarke.

He rolls his head to the side, dodging a punch and catching a brief glimpse of her clenched fists, her standing figure at the edge of the circle. 

He manages to push the wrist Akoni has on his neck away, sending him flying off balance. Bellamy see’s his opening and flings himself up enough to crawl over to the man who is currently trying to get back up from where Bellamy had thrown him.

With a strength he didn’t know he had left, Bellamy lunges up from the ground, pulling Akoni with him, and knees him in the groin, the stomach, the ribs, _anywhere_. 

He keeps going, Akoni doubling over, sagging slowly to the ground, and Bellamy keeps at it, trying to tamper down his guilt, the voices in his head. He focuses on one thing alone.

_Clarke._ Blow to the groin. _Clarke._ Blow to the stomach _. Clarke._ Blow to the ribs.

_Clarke. Clarke. Clarke._

He repeats the mantra over and over until his kneecap sets itself on fire.

He barley feels the others yanking him away from Akoni, who is now lying on the ground breathing shallowly.

Bellamy’s not even sure he’s breathing himself, only aware of his body being hurled away, foreign hands locking his wrists behind his back.

* 

Clarke is only able to breathe properly again when Bellamy gains the upper hand, knocking Akoni out with quick jabs to his abdomen, using only his knee, gripping him by his shoulders. Bellamy’s teeth are clenched and there’s blood and sweat dripping down his face. He’s never looked so strong.

And when Bellamy finally knocks him over, with a strength that is almost scary in its tenacity, the relief floods her. 

He locks his dazed eyes on her, after he’s been pulled away from Akoni and Cheimonas has announced him the winner of the fight, and Clarke manages a remorseful smile.   

She feels for the freckled boy staring back at her – feels the _guilt_ , because he had to do this for her. He is always doing these things for her. Always there when she needs him, without fail. He’s never let her down. 

The realization hits her so hard her legs tremble.

Clarke elbows and shoves her way through the crowd that has gathered around Bellamy, all cheering and looking relatively pleased at the prospect of an alliance with the Sky People.

When she reaches him, tired, beaten and sweaty, but unhurt for the most part, she halts before him, watching him shake hands with Cheimonas respectfully.

He finally turns to her and her fingers twitch, aching to attend to his wounds, especially his nose, which is spewing blood rather worrisomely, but she holds back, instead grasping his hand in one of hers and squeezing, trying to transmit how grateful she is that he’s here, beside her, fighting for her, _always_ fighting for her.

His eyes turn gentle as he stares into her own, lacing his fingers with hers. _I’m with you_. _I’m always with you,_ his eyes say. Her heart squeezes tighter than his hand. 

*

“Cheers, to the brave warriors Bellamy and Akoni, to the Sky People and their respectful acceptance of our culture, to our new allies! We, the people of the Ice Nation, feel this alliance will only facilitate our life here on earth. The Sky People have proven their effectiveness through their successful take down of the mountain. They have saved us all in many ways, and the Ice Clan recognizes this. Tonight, Clarke and Bellamy of the Sky People will join as one to finalize the treaty, and, in doing so, will set our futures in motion. I have no reason to believe that same future looks anything but optimistic. Ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt,” Cheimonas declares, raising her clay cup in toast.

“Is anyone else finding it strange that this clan speaks Latin? Like, really well?” Raven pokes her head out, directing her question to her people after the cheers have quieted down. They’re seated along a narrow table that’s off to the side, Raven at the far end of it. Cheimonas is seated at the center of the tent and her second’s, Echo and Atohl, are flanking her throne. Bellamy is seated at their own table’s other end, next to Clarke. 

“Not really. Our ancestors made it last…” Bellamy muses absently, trying to ignore the fact that all these people are feasting in honor of him and Clarke… having sex... in order to finalize the alliance. 

“Our ancestors didn’t go through a nuclear apocalypse,” Raven bites back.

“Who knows? Their people most likely stumbled across a Latin book at some point in time and adopted it as their own. Easier than coming up with their own language,” Bellamy states, pushing aside a piece of meat and opting, instead, for the bread. He hadn’t eaten much at the pre-ritual dinner, but hungry he is not. His nose is throbbing after Clarke cleaned it up for him and his stomach hasn’t stopped churning nervously ever since he stepped foot into this tent.

_“Thank you,”_ Clarke had said to him earlier inside the warm, quiet walls of the med tent.

_“For what?”_ he had asked, and Clarke had stopped cleaning his nose to stare at him impatiently. 

“ _Bellamy_ ,” she said, almost warningly.

“ _Oh. You mean for beating up that Ice Clan fucker so you wouldn’t have to sleep with him?_ ” He had been aiming for a humorous tone but, instead, it had come out vehement.

Clarke had simply pursed her lips at him and roughly swiped at the blood leaking out of his nose with a braided piece of sweet grass.

“You know what she said?” Raven questions him now.

“Something about fate,” Bellamy bites out bitterly. Clarke, beside him and picking at a piece of bread, hasn’t said anything for a while now.

This entire situation is unnerving, and he knows it would have been ten times worse had Akoni won, but all the food and the celebratory toasts and the foreign customs are driving him crazy.

He doesn’t know if it’s worth the risk. He _needs_ to know if it’s worth it.

He glances at Clarke, but she’s still staring at her plate determinedly.

“It’s a common phrase among the Ice Clan,” Lincoln chimes in. “ _The fates lead the willing and drag the unwilling,”_ he recites.

Bellamy’s head snaps up to look at him down the narrow table. “Seneca.”

Lincoln nods back at him in confirmation, and he finally _finally_ sees Clarke turn her head in interest.

“So, we’re ‘the willing’ in this scenario, correct?” An awkward silence falls over their table at Clarke’s question.

Bellamy wishes she would just come out and say it - that she’s uncomfortable with the whole thing. That she was too hasty in agreeing, that she was wrong and this alliance isn’t worth her losing her dignity. That way, he’d be able to do something about it. Call off this whole thing, ride back home to Camp Jaha, get there in the three days it took on horseback and pretend this never happened… that they don’t need this alliance. He’d do that for her - forget the whole thing.

But, she’s not saying anything, and _that_ he can’t do anything about. He can’t force Clarke to speak, to reassure him, if she doesn’t want to.

“I’m not hungry,” she says, rising from her seat. Bellamy can’t meet her eye, so he keeps staring at his clenched fist on the table, hoping she’ll run away screaming or crying or _something_. Hell, it’s what _he_ wants to do. 

But she doesn’t. Clarke just gets up and quietly walks away.

It makes it all that much worse.

*

It’s sundown and Bellamy thinks he may be sick. 

He’s just been escorted over to the tent where him and Clarke will…. He’s a fucking mess.

He feels like a damn pawn - objectified, used. He feels both expendable and essential, and he’s angry because they’re both being forced, in a way, to do _this._ They aren’t doing it on their own terms, and that frustrates him to no end. This thing between them… he’s afraid the entire ritual will fuck it up.

He knows he won’t be able to separate the obligation of this ritual from him and Clarke having sex, and all he’s ever going to feel regarding it is used… Angry… Compromised. 

All he’s _ever_ going to feel is used, angry and compromised.

He walks in, gearing himself as he does before an argument, but he can’t for the life of him figure out why. And then he see’s her, perched on the edge of the cot of furs, waiting for him. 

She has a small, shy smile on her face, and she’s holding a canteen in one hand and… just like _that_ his anger evaporates.

_I won’t touch her unless she asks me to._  

“Hey,” he says lowly, gruffly.

She scrutinizes him for a moment. He’s wearing a pair of breezy linen pants. When Atohl had said it’d be better advised for him to remain shirtless, he grumbled and threw on his t-shirt anyway before leaving his tent to head over here.

Clarke is still wearing that damn dress. 

She finally brings her eyes back to his, raising the canteen a little in the air. “Wine?” Her eyes look clear, her body language relaxed. 

He nods before walking all the way into the tent, because _what else can he do?_

* 

“Who would’ve thought, huh?” Bellamy quietly mutters eventually, staring down at the fur blanket beneath them. They are seated across from each other on the cot the Ice Clan has provided for them, preparing to… to do whatever it is they will end up doing. 

When Clarke takes too long to respond, he looks up. She’s giving him an unreadable expression, the crease between her brows distinct. She looks like she’s pondering something, debating with herself on whether or not she should say it aloud to him, which is strange in itself because there are usually no verbal boundaries between them. She says what she thinks, always – no hesitations or qualms around him. This entire day has been bizarre, though, Bellamy concludes.

“Yeah…” she mutters lowly, her eyebrows shooting up briefly. She mutters it so lowly he almost doesn’t catch it. She isn’t meeting his eye anymore, deciding instead that the canteen of wine they devoured and set aside is more interesting. “I guess earth will never get tired of throwing us curveballs.” 

Clarke, co-leader of their society, brave slayer of the Mountain, twenty-year-old girl who told him she needed him that dark day not too long ago, looks, astonishingly, nervous. Sometimes he forgets just how young she is. That, though her experiences of the gruesome variety are vast, her experiences of the ordinary kind may not be so immeasurable.

She’s just a twenty-year-old woman and he’s just a twenty-five-year-old man. The realization sneaks up on him, deterring him for a moment.

She’s extraordinary in that way, though. She can make you forget that you’re following a twenty-year-old girl from Alpha Station with a savior complex. She makes you forget a lot of things, but never how you would follow her to the ends of the earth. And all the while, she’s seemingly unaware herself of the loyalty she can inspire. Clarke’s funny that way.

He eyes her carefully. “Clarke… I need you to tell me if you want to call this whole thing off, alright? No alliance is worth you having to compromise yourself.”

“And what about you?” she demands, surprising him with the abruptness and fervor of her question. There’s a fire in her eyes that has surfaced, seemingly, out of nowhere.

“Me?” He questions, utterly perplexed.

“Yes, you, Bellamy Blake. This isn’t a one-person job. How do you feel about all of this?”

“It doesn’t matter how I feel,” he states gruffly, watching the muscles work in his bruised fist.

She scoffs, and when he looks up she’s shaking her head at him.

“Look, I agreed to do this because I wanted to. Because I thought this was the right decision. Given our options, there wasn’t much else we could do. We need this alliance, but… but if I was truly uncomfortable with all this I would have said no. Stop treating me as your victim, Bellamy. I agreed to do this, just as you did. I trust you.” 

Bellamy just stares, because she hasn’t spoken like this in a while, with so much conviction in her voice. It reminds him of their earlier days on earth, her defying him at every turn.

Yes, Clarke Griffin is their leader, alongside himself, but ever since the Mountain she’s never been the same girl she was forced to be during that awful time.

Things had calmed down after she returned, not constantly demanding her, or even himself, to wear themselves away into husks of people. She came back and her eyes were clearer, her frown less pronounced, and she took her spot next to him – as simple as breathing. The way it should be. 

They lead their people, with occasional input from Abby and Kane, and she seems at peace with her role when it isn’t demanding murder from her.

So, he hasn’t heard her speak like that, like she is ready to march into battle, in a while. It takes him by surprise. He didn’t think he’d ever miss it.

“Okay,” he rasps, still looking at her. “So, we’re really doing this?”

“We’re really doing this,” she agrees.

He could blame it on the wine, but Clarke Griffin isn’t the type of girl who agrees to do anything she doesn’t want to, even slightly intoxicated, and Bellamy Blake is weak in the face of a headstrong Clarke who knows exactly what she is doing.

So, he agrees with her in the end. 

What else is new?

_The Princess and the Rebel finally coming together for the sake of an alliance…_ He doesn’t think the stars have ever been more crossed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All those aware of what is coming next, say "Aye!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, but I really needed this chapter to feel right! Also, thank you to C. JoyBell C. for Clarke's favourite saying in this chapter. Stumbled across that quotation some time ago and I've never been able to forget it.  
> Thank you for all the support - I hope you enjoy!

"The gates of hell are open night and day;

Smooth the descent, and easy is the way:

But to return, and view the cheerful skies,

In this the task and mighty labor lies." - Virgil, Virgil's Aeneid

*

They’re lying on their backs, fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling of the brown skin tent.

“Favourite colour?”

Bellamy scoffs at the predictability of Clarke’s question. After a moment of his distinctive side-eye, though, he speaks up. “Green, I guess. You?”

“Me too.” She pauses before she adds, “I only really realized how true that sentiment was after we landed." 

Bellamy hums a bit in agreement. “There _is_ a lot of green down here.” 

She smirks. “Favourite saying?” 

He turns his head to stare at her. “Seriously? That’s so difficult.”

“Mine is, ‘you will find that it is necessary to let things go, simply for the reason that they are heavy’,” she quotes softly, meticulously. 

He stares at her a moment, swallows, aware with just how vulnerable she is being – how much she is sharing. It starkly contrasts the Clarke that walked through those gates again not too long ago. It makes a happiness bloom in his chest – that she is finally beginning to feel better. “Why that one?”

“My dad was the one who first told me about it. I was twelve years old and having an existential crisis about whether there was an after life or not, and he told me that, and I felt better.” She pauses, staring down at her tightly clasped hands. The angle is awkward, but she manages it. “It reminded me of what Luna told me when I first encountered her.” 

“What did Luna say?” He asks, still looking at her downcast eyes, and it’s like the words won’t stop flowing out of her – like she needs to release them, finally.

“She helped me heal. She told me that I needed to let go of what happened in-”. She cuts herself off before continuing softly. “She told me I had to let go of the bad memories in order to live, in order to remain sane. She told me if I only hung onto the darkness, it’d just hold me down until there was nothing left.”

His heart stutters, the anecdote reminding him of his own dark days during which she resided with the Water Clan. She had Luna to help her, and he had his sister, and the 46, and it makes him feel a little better to know she hadn’t been alone during that time.

He absently thinks healing would’ve been easier had she been present; that they could have dealt with it better, together.

“It’s probably why I stayed with them in the first place,” she continues. “I felt like it was a sign from my dad or something. That these people were going to keep me safe. I’ve never really believed in any of that – supernatural shit or whatever, but that… that I believed, down to my core.” She lets out a shaky breath once she’s done, feeling bare at how much she just shared.

He turns his head away from her to stare at the conical-shaped ceiling.

“’I am Aeneas, duty-bound, and known. Above high air of heaven by my fame, carrying with me in my ships our gods of hearth and home, saved from the enemy. I look for Italy to be my fatherland, and my descent is from all-highest Jove’,” he recites, verbatim.

Clarke’s head swivels around to stare at Bellamy. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are hard.

Quietly, she questions, “Why that one?”

The corner of his mouth slants upwards a fraction before he sits himself up from his lying position, his back leaning against the wooden board behind the cot. It prompts Clarke to flip over onto her side, propping her head onto her hand so she can look at him better.

“Aeneas was misunderstood,” he starts. “He lost everything. A lot of people laugh at that line, because they’re confusing his pietas for piety. Aeneas had duty and loyalty, not so much humility. He did what he was asked, no matter what. He did what he had to do, and he always put others first. He didn’t let his own desires deter him for too long; he sacrificed Dido, even though it killed him, because it’s what needed to happen in order to found Rome…. That mission defined who he was. Those responsibilities are what made up his identity,” he finishes off intensely.

Clarke wants to say that he possibly just described himself, but she remains quiet, watching the slew of emotions play out on his face.

“The only reason Rome was established was through Aeneas and his people’s, and even his opponent’s, suffering. Dido, Turnus – it was necessary. Everyone loves to call Aeneas a theatrical idiot, or an asshole for leaving Dido, but… he did what he was born to do.” His voice peters off in volume and turns into something softer. “It’s tragic, really, because even though he wins he still defeats Turnus, who was definitely a commendable opponent, you know?” He pauses. “Aeneas never wanted Rome for himself. He just wanted to build a city where his people could live in peace.”

She doesn’t think she’s ever heard Bellamy speak with so much intensity, in spite of his tendency to burst out into speech. He’s not looking at her, having instead spoken to the opening of the tent the entire time. Her chest constricts with his frankness, the vulnerable look on his face. She decides she’s going to tell him.

“I think you and Aeneas are pretty similar, then.”

He never thought about it before – just appreciated what Aeneas stood for, what he sacrificed, what he achieved. Now, though, having Clarke tell him that… well, it throws him a little.

He never used to sneak into the Ark’s library to read Virgil because he thought he was like Aeneas. He did it because he fell in love with the words, the way they flowed together so lyrically that he would have to stop reading sometimes to just stare at one sentence like he wanted to consume it. He wanted to commit the entire epic to memory.

He’d always resonated more with Turnus and his impulsive, passionate behavior. Perhaps now, especially - a young princess consumed Turnus, and he marched into battle blindly for her, and for what?

 _He just hopes their fates won’t be analogous_.

Aeneas never got Dido, though - the strong, beautiful queen of Carthage, whose loneliness was the only thing in which made her vulnerable. Destiny didn’t permit it. Maybe he _is_ like Aeneas in a way, then.

He makes a noncommittal noise, shrugs a little, just to placate her.

Clarke shakes her head at this man – so blind to his own achievements and admirable makings. She wants to, both, smack him upside the head and smash her lips against his. 

“You’re never going to see it, are you?” She asks heatedly, willing him to meet her gaze.

“See what?” he asks gruffly, distractedly. He’s still stuck in his own head.

“That you’re good. You’re altruistic, Bellamy.”

Bellamy thinks there’s a pattern amongst good men – amongst the hero; they always seem to suffer, die, for the greater good, but he doesn’t voice this.

He swallows thickly before turning his head to gaze openly at her, the heat behind her baby blue’s vivid. It looks so sexy on her. 

“You’re good. Especially to me, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

“Ditto.” It comes out gruffer than he meant for, and he wishes he could tell her more, that it wasn’t easy, that not being there for her was never an option for him. She doesn’t let him in that moment, though. 

They’re not drunk; they’re suspended there. Their inhibitions are definitely lowered, and maybe that’s why she does it. Or maybe it’s just because she needs to get this man to realize how worth it he is. It’s not because they have to, though, for the ritual, and that makes her chest swell with relief. 

When she surges up, and their mouths connect, it seems to take him completely by surprise, because he makes a sound at the back of his throat that sounds distinctly like a gruff whimper, and he goes stock-still. He tastes like bliss, though, so she keeps going, hoping to get a reaction out of him.

It only comes when she adds more bruising pressure, willing his mouth to open underneath her tongue. His hand finally reaches up to cradle her head, just underneath her hair and ear, and she shivers and then he’s finally responding, but too gently for her liking. She wants to drown in him, not butterfly stroke above the surface.

He’s holding back, she knows it, so she moves to straddle his lap, hoping he gets the message loud and clear that she wants him.

He doesn’t really realize she’s kissing him until he feels her shiver followed by her tongue licking his bottom lip, and then his body catches up with his brain, and he cradles her head, like it’s something precious, because it really is. He’s just trying not to make the wrong move, doesn’t want to push her. 

When he feels her ground down in his lap, he unlatches his mouth from hers, panting two centimeters away from her dilated pupils and hungry gaze. 

“Clarke-” he begins. 

“Shut up and kiss me properly.”

So he does, and it’s like a dam is unleashed after that. He can’t control how much he wants her anymore, so he tries to show her instead.

She’s not really sure how she thought it would be between them. If anything she expected anger, disguised in the roughness. She didn’t expect him to make love to her. She didn’t expect the tenderness… his gentle touch, simultaneously mixed in with his firmness. He’s, both, rough and gentle as he kisses his way down her neck, over her stupid dress-covered breasts.

That was probably pretty presumptuous of her, though. To think he’d be all bite and no love.

It’s like all she had to do was make the first move. Touch him first. Let him know for certain that he’s what she wanted. It took her some time, but that is what she wants. Bellamy. All of him. It’s astounding because she tried playing off her need and want for this man as merely sexual.

Boy, was she wrong. She wants Bellamy on a chemical level. A pathetic level, one that’s probably unhealthy in its dependency, but she doesn’t really know how to do this, life, without him. 

He’s making her dizzy with his firm pressure. And, god, that’s the perfect word for him at the moment, as he bites her nipple through the material of her dress. Firm. 

She sneaks her hands underneath his shirt to span his back. He’s warm.

“Bellamy,” she pants, “Off.” He gets up halfway to yank his shirt off and then Clarke’s mouth goes dry. She reaches one hand out to trace over the scar that missed his spleen by a couple centimeters. Clarke remembers stitching him up, remembers the fear that clogged her throat when she saw all the blood, the talk Raven had to have with her before she could even stitch him up because her hands were shaking so bad. Sometimes she thinks she knows his body better than her own.

He’s like Adonis. Clarke thinks she could draw him a million times and never get it right. She thinks Leonardo Da Vinci could, too, and never get it right. He’s so striking she has to stop and admire him for a moment. 

He’s staring back at her like he feels the same way, which is a little absurd and too much for her heart to bear - the possibility that he could want her just as much as she wants him.

She pulls him down to kiss his lips again, this time using her hands to explore his glorious back.

She sneaks her hand between them to harshly pull the string of his breezy pants undone.

When she does, he inhales sharply into the crook of her neck because he knew it. He fucking knew she would be this way – challenging, unapologetic, toxic in the very best way. 

He has a vice like grip on her hips, which will probably bruise, but his self-control is deteriorating steadily. He bites her collarbone without even realizing it as she shoves his pants down south, her hands sliding past his hipbones, pausing to squeeze. He jerks forward uncontrollably.

“This dress,” he pants hotly in her ear, “needs to come off. Now.” 

“So take it off,” she tells him, all breathy and hot as hell.

He gets up on his knees and pulls her up gently by the hands, holds her against him. He cradles her face before diving in for another searing kiss.

Bellamy moves his hands through her tangled hair, grabbing it all in one hand to twist it away from her face. She’s panting, her chest heaving exceptionally fast, when his hands pull the thick straps of her dress down past her shoulders. She’s more nervous than she ever thought she’d be when she is finally bared to him. The Ice Clan never gave her a bra to wear with the dress, so when he pulls it down completely, the thing pooling around her waist, she stops breathing. And so does he.

She’s wonderful, so he can’t really help himself from cupping her breasts and squeezing, eliciting a soft whimper from Clarke. He’s in awe of her; she’s a goddess. He tells her this, whispers it against her breastbone, as he kisses his way down until he has one of her nipples in his mouth.

“Okay, I need to lay down if you’re going to do that,” Clarke breathes.

Bellamy laughs softly against her chest, raising his head to look into her eyes again, eyebrow raised. He rubs his palms up her waist, up her shoulders to rest them on either side of her neck, drawing soft circles with his thumbs at the front of her throat. “Okay,” he gruffs, smirking slightly.

“Oh, shut up and get on with it,” she says, shoving him to lie back down. 

“Yes, Ma’am,” he responds, a shit eating grin on his face, pulling her dress the rest of the way off. And then Clarke is in nothing but her little panties in front of him and his brain just kind of stops.

His large hands spread down her thighs and he is devouring her with his eyes alone, swallowing roughly before meeting her gaze again. She nods at him, so he slowly drags her panties down her creamy legs, throwing them aside.

He’s completely captivated with the sight in front of him: Clarke bare, panting, ready, waiting. Waiting for him to do something. He doesn’t even know where to start. He’s rock hard right now. He licks his lips, debating if he should eat her out first or not.

“Bellamy,” she says, impatient and a little frustrated. He breathes out a laugh. 

“I know, I know. I just… you’re beautiful. I’m trying to take it all in.” 

Her heart swells. She adores him. He has no idea.

“Bellamy…” she says again, more softly this time, and that’s what decides him. He crawls his way down her body, laying sweet kisses to every part of her as he goes, until he reaches her soft hips. He looks up and he knows he’d forgive her, no matter what. She looks imaginary, a dream he somehow was able to conjure up, with all her soft curves and beautiful edges. She looks like a woman, and it makes Bellamy’s cock twitch in anticipation.

Clarke props herself up onto her elbows to watch him, awestruck and wanton. When he parts her folds with one strong sweep of his tongue, she moans and has to lie back down. She feels him smile against her most intimate space and she shivers because _holy shit, he’s good._  

Her hips buck up when he lightly bites her pearl, sucking it into his mouth, eliciting a loud whimper from the deepest parts of her.

He teases, flicks and taunts her a little longer and then she tenses up, her back arching, bringing her warmth even closer to his hungry mouth. He looks up to find her full breasts heaving, head thrown back in pure bliss, and he can’t wait a moment longer.

He crawls back up her body and when she reaches between them, still intoxicated, grabbing onto him to line them up, he gently pushes his way in. Her tight walls resist him at first - his entirety, his weight. She’s still sensitive and trembling from her previous orgasm.

He’s bigger than she expected, but as she wraps her legs around his waist, keeping him close to her, she accepts him fully. And as soon as she does, as soon as he fills her to the brim, she knows she never could have fought this between them. She gives in, throwing her head back with a moan and clawing helplessly at his back, urging him to move inside her, and when he does it’s everything she knew it would be. 

Bellamy starts moving and his brain becomes mush. All he can do is feel. Clarke has him, and it’s no surprise, really. She takes what she wants, always, and he is helpless in the face of her resolve. He thought it was time he gave in, anyway. So he does.

Maybe he's a little angry as it happens, seeping uncontrollably through his pores and his thrusts due to lost time and lonely, frustrated nights spent wishing she was there, but she embraces it, _him_. Like she embraces everything about him he's slightly ashamed of. She holds on tighter and he knows she's apologizing - for rashly leaving, for not staying with him when he did for her, for the void the distance created - the void that disappeared as soon as she showed up. 

And he's apologizing, too, with each thrust, when he breathes harshly against her collarbone, sucking bruises there, immediately soothing them with wet kisses. He’s apologizing for resenting her after she returned, for taking too long to really make his way back to her again, for what they had to do, together, in that awful mountain.  

He’s hard wired into her veins, it feels like. She moves, he responds. She sighs, he swallows it through a kiss. She inhales, he exhales. She stops, he waits. He plunges into her, she accepts him. No going back now. 

“You feel so good,” he pants into her jaw. She drags one hand up until it’s tangled into his mess of curls. She grips them between her fingers hard, almost painfully, and her thighs spread wider on a desperate moan. He plunges deeper, harder, faster. 

When he pulls almost all the way out of her, only to plunge back in, completely sheathed within her again, she cries out, and he’s positive someone outside their tent heard.

“I’m close,” he says, voice hot and heavy against her ear. He hooks her left leg under his arm to lift it up and back, and he moans, all gruff and harsh, at the new angle. 

“Bell- Bellamy,” she moans.

She sends everything inside him sloshing around, recklessly, with each buck of her hips to meet his. What they have doesn’t adhere to any rules. It’s messy yet equal, chaotic yet balanced. He hadn't realized he wanted this until he held it in the palms of his hands. Didn't feel terrified down to his bones of losing her until he had a real taste of her. 

“More,” she voices through a loud moan.

He snaps his hips relentlessly, their lovemaking inevitably evolving into the fucking he always knew it would become. When he roughly kisses her, she moans into his mouth, clenching around him until she’s a puddle of never-ending shudders. He collapses against her chest after she drains him for all he’s worth, panting heavily into the crook of her neck. She cradles his sweaty head to her, not letting him get too far. 

They're tangled, panting heavily in ecstasy, and he never knew forgiveness could be wrapped up in someone's body in such a way - didn't know it could be expressed so wholly through intimate touches and firm caresses. But it's there. God, is it ever. It's there like the blinding trust between them. Like the undeniable connection between them, that tethers them together. He swears it feels like they’re the same person sometimes. Like his body is her body. His soul. Her soul. 

 _How can two people that come from such different worlds come together like this?_ He doesn't think he'll ever know the answer to that question. All he knows is he's thankful for her everyday she stands next to him… his equal. 

He falls asleep with his head resting against her sternum, her heart, and the steady beating lulls him into a state of peace he’s never visited before. 

She holds onto him for dear life, until her fingers get tired of sweeping against his soft, heated skin, and she falls asleep, feeling utterly safe and at peace. It’s, both, foreign and familiar; expected, though, wrapped around Bellamy like this.

*

They wake and it is all very quiet and simple. Unassuming, but loaded with the weight of their emotions, laying underneath the surface, begging to be set free just one more time. 

She expected nothing more, because she isn’t the type of person who voices these things, and he isn’t the type of person to push. So, they accept the silence with peaceful hearts, and get dressed together to head home.

Cheimonas thanks them, on their way out of Heims, and they accept some bags of barley to finalize the alliance, strapping it to their horses. 

Antigone stops Clarke before she can reach her horse, a piece of brown fabric held in her hands. “Clarke.”

She turns, sending the woman a brief, but warm, smile. “Antigone. Thank you for everything.”

She nods before offering her the beautiful brown cloth. “You are meant to keep the dress. A sign of good faith.”

“Or superstition,” Clarke says softly, just for them, her lips twitching with the beginnings of a smile. 

“You forgot tradition,” Antigone replies, a smile of her own firmly in place.

Clarke huffs out a laugh, because it’s all a little bizarre and ridiculous but she’s never felt happier. She accepts the dress from Antigone, the same one Bellamy pulled off her last night. 

She wants to cry a little in that moment, the elk skin soft in her hands, because she feels closer to her old self, the self that coexisted with Jake Griffin, than she has in a really long time. 

 _Is it possible for someone to save your soul?_ She asks herself.

“Visit. You are always welcome here. Bellamy and your people, too. ”

“Same goes for you. Maybe if you accompany Echo on trading trips from now on, I’ll do the same with Bellamy.”

 _Who knows what will happen now that they have an alliance in place. Maybe Echo will come around more often. Maybe Bellamy will come to Heims more often. Maybe her and Antigone can become friends. Maybe nothing will change. Maybe this was just one of those things that they had to do because they are who they are._  

“Clarke,” Bellamy’s gruff voice calls to her, clearing her chaotic thoughts, the haze, the doubt.

She whips her head around to face him, one strong, tanned arm resting against the horse’s saddle, waiting for her. She doesn't have to pretend with Bellamy. She just has to remember how to breathe sometimes. It never takes too long for it to feel natural again, though.

Raven is perched atop her horse already, her brace in sight, but she doesn’t look uncertain in the way that she did on their way here. Octavia and Lincoln are a little way down the barren path, just outside of the Ice Nation’s walls, perched atop their own horses, talking in low, intimate voices. There’s a smile on Octavia’s face. She returns her gaze back to her partner. 

“Ready?” he asks her. She nods, turning back to Antigone.

“See you soon?” Clarke questions the lady, who’s played a quiet but essential presence during her time here. She’s grateful.

“Of course,” and she sounds so certain when she says it, so Clarke nods confidently in return.

She finally turns away to meet Bellamy, who is now getting her own horse ready, untangling the reins to hand to her.

“Thank you,” she tells him, accepting them.

He eyes the dress before meeting her gaze, his brown eyes warm, inviting, open. He smiles at her before speaking. “Anytime,” and his smile is a private thing as he gazes at her.  

She breaks into a grin of her own, shoving him playfully out of the way so she can mount her beautiful black horse.

_Is this what peace feels like?_

She hears Bellamy chuckle, a low and rare thing. Clarke looks down to meet his stare, raising her eyebrows. “Ready?” She mimics him from earlier.

He grins up at her, nodding. “I was born ready, Princess.” And it doesn’t sting anymore, the reminder of another life here on the ground. A life she was forced to go through to get to this point. The moniker sounds delicate and safe on his lips, not at all bitter or resentful. Not one trace of resentment in Bellamy Blake’s voice, and the knowledge makes her so happy she thinks she might cry. 

“Let’s go,” she tells him through a huge grin.

He mounts his own horse, and their gaze’s meet when he’s at her height once again. Clarke hugs the horse with her legs, squeezing, adjusts her posture. Bellamy does the same, in sync, and they’re off, together, side-by-side, taking the same steady pace home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr: http://purekatharsis.tumblr.com


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